


A Seat Built for Two

by shooting-stetsons (hulksmashmouth)



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV)
Genre: Civilian AU, F/M, accidentally fell in your lap while standing on this crowded bus au, wswinter
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-16
Updated: 2014-12-16
Packaged: 2018-03-01 17:56:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,655
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2782274
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hulksmashmouth/pseuds/shooting-stetsons
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A Civilian, or "I accidentally fell in your lap while standing on this crowded bus" au for the Ward/Simmons Winter.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Seat Built for Two

**Author's Note:**

> Written for WardSimmonsDays' first winter challenge

Every day at precisely 6:15pm, Jemma Simmons boarded the 17 bus from her shift at St. Joseph’s toward her apartment on Thatcher Avenue. The transit took nearly an hour, and much of the time the bus was packed to the gills by the time she got on. She was small enough to squeeze her way to the back door, though, where she could lean on the wall and catch a bit of shut-eye.

Or watch the hot stranger.

He was already seated on the bus every evening when she boarded. Same seat, same charcoal-black jacket, same sleek black leather briefcase, same handsome face. More often than not he was absorbed in something on his phone or writing in a notebook small enough to fit in his palm, always looking very well put-together and composed, but once Jemma could have sworn she caught him dozing off. His chin kept dipping down to his chest, overhead lights glinting on his glasses lenses every time he jerked his head back up again and rubbed his jaw, embarrassed. It was the sweetest thing she’d ever seen.

Not that she wanted him to know she was looking or anything like that. It would be mortifying. But she would like to tell him how handsome his smile was. There was a mum and two little girls who took the same route but got off much sooner than Jemma or the hot stranger, and sometimes Jemma caught him watching the little girls talk their poop mum’s ear off with a smile on his face. A few times she almost mustered the courage to say “Cute, aren’t they?” when she saw the phenomenon, but every time she came close the bus would hit a bump, or someone would pass wind, or (the worst yet) his phone would start to ring, he’d pick up and say, “Hi, Dad,” and his smile would vanish until she jumped off at Pleasant Circle.

Jemma rather hated that man’s father.

It was a week before Christmas, so traffic and crowds were even more terrible than usual when Jemma boarded the 17. As usual she squeezed her way to the back door, but the little alcove where she liked to lean was all full up, so Jemma had to stand in the center aisle. Her hip was brushing against the hot stranger’s shoulder as the bus moved. It was the closest they’d ever been. She _really_ hoped she didn’t smell like the hospital. It was embarrassing enough that she was wearing her teddy bear patterned scrubs today.

To distract herself and avoid staring quite so obviously at him, Jemma played her usual game of _Let’s Guess Things About the Hot Stranger’s Life_. It was one of the only ways to amuse herself on the long ride when she couldn’t see him. A variety of possible lifestyles and scenarios that fulfilled her curiosity without terminally humiliating herself.

_His name is Tucker, and his father’s the CEO of a drill-making company_ , she thought up first, watching his fingers as they played with the spiral of his little notebook. _Dad wants him to follow in his footsteps, take up the family business, but Tucker’s not interested. He’s…an artist_.

_No, no, definitely not an artist_. Jemma wrinkled her nose at herself. That was ridiculous. _Of course he’s not an artist, look at his clothes, his briefcase! Immaculate, that. Not to mention the bulging muscles. Remember last August, all the t-shirts he wore? No artist has muscles like that_. _He’s much more practical than an artist, too. Maybe he runs some kind of high-end boutique. Dad disowned him. Why? Well, selling clothes is rather the flowery career from a promising young man, isn’t it? Intelligent, sensible, dependable, loyal, he’s every father’s dream._

The bus hit a large pothole in the road and she gripped the handrail above her head more tightly to keep her feet. Sandwiched between two strangers, fingers going to sleep, it was not the first time Jemma wished she had a valid US driver’s license. But that commute would probably take just as long in this city, wouldn’t it? She shifted to switch hands on the safety rail, turning her body toward the hot stranger in order to reach and determinedly staring above his head so she wouldn’t accidentally stare.

_Okay, so, different story. Mum’s died and Dad’s a bit bonkers with grief. He—we’ll call him Max, this time—Max doesn’t smile when his father calls because he knows the poor old man’s unwell, might have to go to a nursing home soon, can’t take care of himself, poor duck. Max is conflicted over the choice, because he doesn’t want to shut his dad away, but he’s also a young man in the prime of his life. He can’t exactly settle down and start a family if he’s constantly looking after his aging father, can’t he? That’s why he always smiles so sadly when he sees that Mum and her two girls up front._

_Oh, that was too sad. Now I’m depressed_.

Inconspicuously (or so she hoped), Jemma tipped her head down to check that her armpits didn’t stink after 12 hours on-shift. The man pressed up tight against her behind was either doing laundry this evening, or…she suppressed a shudder and tried to think of something else.

_He’s a stand-up comedian; you just can’t tell by how he dresses or behaves. His name is Louis and he’s from Texas and he’s got one of those hilarious accents. He wanted to be an astronaut when he was a little boy, but—_

_SCREEEEECH_!

Horn blaring, the bus hit a patch of ice and skid sideways into an intersection. Jemma couldn’t help her terrified yelp as she and everyone standing around her swayed, one symbiotic being, trapped in the vehicle’s centrifugal force. Someone’s elbow knocked hers and her hand, already gone numb from gripping the bar above her head so long, gave out completely. For one stellar moment she was suspended, so tightly sandwiched between Mister Pants-Snake and Garlic Breath. Then she slipped from between them, one arm still pinned, her body turning to avoid twisting anything, and the horrifying sensation of falling backward.

She shrieked in alarm as something solid wound its way around her waist, pulled her in tight, and in a flash she was sitting securely, clinging on for dear life with her eyes crushed closed, until the bus driver finally managed to regain control and pull over. Jemma cracked her eyes open one at a time, then stiffened.

The hot stranger was holding her in his lap.

His glasses were fogging over as he looked up at her. “Are you okay?” he asked breathlessly.

For a long moment (long enough to realize her hands were clenched to white knuckles in his coat), Jemma was too stunned and scared to speak, so she only nodded. “I thought we were going to die,” she squeaked after regaining some composure.

The hot stranger’s eyebrows shot up. “Oh my god, you’re _British_.”

“I—what?” she stammered. A blush suddenly rocketed up his face. “Yes, I am, why?”

He swallowed and glanced at the nearest window. A crowd was gathering outside, police lights flashing off shop windows. “Uh…it’s kind of embarrassing,” he admitted, “but I noticed we’re on the same bus every day, and started—coming up with stories. About you. You were never British in my head.”

Despite the shifting of passengers toward the exits, their route being transferred to another bus while the aged driver recovered the shock of almost crashing, Jemma remained exactly where she was. In a very hot stranger’s lap. Staring at him. “I’ve actually been doing the same for you,” she confessed with a grin, her cheeks heating. “I’m Jemma.”

The poor man looked so _relieved_. “Grant,” he replied, extracting one arm from around her to extend a hand in the few inches between them. “Um—my sister will kill me if I don’t ask you out. Not that I’m asking you out because she told me to, I really…can I buy you a cup of coffee?”

“I think I should probably _dismount_ before agreeing,” Jemma retorted, a laugh tugging on the fringes of her voice. She couldn’t help it; this was all so absurdly delightful. He had been sneaking peeks at her all this time, while she thought her helpless infatuation was one-sided?

A grin, a beautiful, teeth-bared, eyes-crinkled grin spread across his face. He dropped his head onto her shoulder with a groan. “This has to be the strangest way I’ve ever asked a girl out,” he laughed. 

“Well, not to add insult to injury, but I think those teenagers are Tweeting us.”

His head shot up again. The pair of teenage girls lingering in the door broke into shrieks of laughter and ran. Jemma and Grant were the only passengers left on the bus. She bit her lip and slowly climbed down off his lap, adjusting her— “My bag’s gone!” she gasped in horror. “Mister Pants-Snake snatched it while he was groping me! Oh my god, I-!”

Shaking his head, Grant reached under his seat and resurfaced with her bag. “It fell off when you fell _on_ me,” he explained, handing it over to her as he stood. With a hand on her shoulder he guided them off the bus. “You’re going to have to tell me about Mister Pants-Snake, though.”

“Oh, _not_ on the first date,” she snorted.

“Let me know if you see him again; I’ll give him a punch for you.”

“I’ll be doing my own punching, thanks.”

“Will you?”

“I certainly will!”

“Well, that works for me. Wait, punch my hand, let’s see how— _ow!_ Yeah, you’re good.”

“I know I am.” She grinned up at him, trying not to shake her aching hand at her side. He shook his head, laughing again. They turned in toward the nearest Starbucks entryway to escape the cold.


End file.
